I've been checking out grad schools. I'm in the market for something mid-sized to large, not too flashy but with some serious horsepower. The main problem is I attend UW-Madison. Essentially, I've driven the car from \Night Rider"" for four years, and now some comb-over in a polyester jacket is telling me that ""ain't nothing in the world drive like a Plymouth.""
So Madison seems like the best grad school option. But what if I get sick of it? It doesn't seem possible, but neither did getting sick of the war in Iraq-and yet I think we've grown tired of it. Or pogs, those just aren't that cool anymore.
And who needs grad school anyway? I've taken classes for 16 years now (excluding pre-school), and I think I know about as much as I need to. What are some of the words that rhyme with skirt? Shirt, hurt, curt, squirt. Oh, I could go on, because let me tell you, my second grade class filled up three mighty big sheets of paper. And don't even try to pull out sorbet, like Mrs. O'Brien's class next door did, because dialectical pronunciations will not fly.
Or how about taking a newsworthy event and writing a poem about it? Let me hit you with an excerpt from my ""Ode to the Branch Davidians,"" circa sixth grade.
""The ATF insisted that Big Dave Koresh must fall/ And so they drove that big ol' tank right through the compound wall/ It was the worst event that ever happened there in Waco/ Leaving Branch Davidians all crispified, like Bacos.""
These are the kind of real-world skills I've honed throughout my academic career. Take my mastery of French, for instance. If I were to be transported at this very moment to the heart of Paris, I could turn to the first person I saw and say, in flawless Parisian, ""I look at the red rugs, therefore I am a potato. Is there a fish in your God's library?"" I think that would go a long way toward alleviating the trans-Atlantic tension brought on by the conflict in Iraq.
I grew more serious about my studies in high school. Senior year, I was balancing a heavy class load, including ceramics, drawing and painting and a study hall. Pouring myself into my schoolwork, I discovered that, as a young man with an already receding hairline, everyone assumed I was a student teacher, and never asked to see my hall pass.
The learning curve grew steeper in college. My 8:50 a.m. sociology class taught me to prioritize. More specifically, it taught me it was a priority to stay awake only for the first 15 minutes of class, as the next 35 would be nothing but a recap.
Perhaps the most startling fact I've noticed is grad schools expect you to pay them. What kind of crap is that? They should be fighting over an applicant as accomplished as I. And it turns out one of the primary ways to secure financial aid is through a teaching assistantship. This means I'd be passing on my wealth of knowledge to students in freshmen composition.
It's inspiring to think I could lecture about run-on sentences to stoned and hung-over underclassmen who might one day be doing the very same thing. And as they gaze up at me, I hope they realize the majority of my life has been spent preparing for this very moment.
Welcome to the first day of class. Please take out a piece of paper and write a short paragraph about why I'm qualified to teach you.
chunkkicke@yahoo.com.
